


Kitchen Catastrophes

by TinyTony19



Series: Sunshine in Our Eyes [3]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Mutual Pining, cooking but make it a natural disaster, cooking with spencer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29012124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyTony19/pseuds/TinyTony19
Summary: In which Spencer isn’t the greatest cook, and you’re really good with knives?“How do you mess up pasta?”
Relationships: Spencer Reid & Reader, Spencer Reid & You, Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Original Male Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader, Spencer Reid/You
Series: Sunshine in Our Eyes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027032
Comments: 3
Kudos: 50





	Kitchen Catastrophes

**Author's Note:**

> Tags/Warnings: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader, fluff, cussing, cooking with spencer, he cant cook for shit its canon, mutual pining (no established relationships), slight song-fic, cooking but make it a natural disaster
> 
> AN: thanks anon!! you probably expected some cute wifey shit but you came to the wrong writer hon. this also covers the domesticity request?? idk but im counting it
> 
> I havent been feeling well and needed a break from FtH, so heres a shot of fluff before i throw myself (and yall) back into the fake-dating train :)))
> 
> If you noticed, i lightly described the filipino way of making spaghetti. not that reader is filipino.
> 
> Listen to Can’t Take My Eyes Off You by Frankie Valli, one of my fav oldie songs!!
> 
> hope you enjoyed!!

[Originally posted by stxrrywildflower](http://tmblr.co/ZjVfPhYOWWn5mq00)

It’s Saturday, or more specifically, your day-off.

It’s your day to catch up on sleep. It’s your day to do something for yourself. It’s your day to do something that doesn’t involve looking at the ugly mugs of people and the mangled bodies they leave in their wake.

So, who the fuck is spamming you at this hour?

Groaning, you bury your face into your pillow as your phone pings several times, palming your nightstand until you find the little whore. You hiss as the screen comes to life, blearily scrolling through text notifications. 

It’s Spencer. There’s messages within seconds of each other, all with similar context and phrasing. 

_Pls help_

_In deep_

_Don’t know what to do_

_Actually nevermind dont_

_Im fine pls dont come_

_How to delete text messages_

You blink once, twice. Then you bolt out of bed, tripping over yourself to get dressed.

You have two theories: Spencer is either in a life-or-death situation or someone has stolen his phone. Neither are promising. How do you know this?

Because he texted you without proper grammar. Not to mention he sent multiple texts instead of a long-ass paragraph.

He’s either dying or someone’s hacked him.

You grab your keys, storming out of your apartment.

_Don’t worry, Spencer. I’m on my way._

* * *

You're breathless when you arrive, your nose wrinkling at the smell of charred… something. It reminds you of burned flesh and debris as you clear the hallway, the floor creaking as you close in on Spencer’s apartment. You stiffen, your gun in hand. 

The door’s cracked open.

You back against the wall and peek through, finding nothing. Aside from the faint sound of the facet running, nothing moves or breathes. You quietly make your way inside. 

Immediately, you know something is wrong because it’s a _mess_ : the window’s thrown open, papers are scattered everywhere, there’s used bowls and utensils strewn across the kitchen counter, and⎼fuck⎼there’s splatters of blood painting the kitchen walls and floor. 

Obviously, there was a struggle. You choke down a sob.

Oh god, they have Spencer. Probably torturing him right now. 

Your mind races as you leaf through possible suspects, crossing out unsubs you’ve put away, enemies he may have⎼shit, that’s a whole _other_ list⎼

"(Your Name)?"

You spin on your heel, aiming at the offender.

Spencer yelps as he puts his hands up. He stands in the middle of the hallway, his hair more wild than usual, button-down shirt rumpled and stained red. He gulps, staring down the barrel of your gun.

You lower your weapon instantly. "Reid, are you hurt? Nevermind, of course you are, look at you," You pat down his shirt with your free hand, meeting his surprised gaze, eyes dark and wild as you growl, “Who did this to you? Because I swear I will find them and I will _end_ them.”

Spencer's brow furrows. “What? Nothing happened,” He reassures you, gently shaking you off.

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow as you gesture around with your gun. “Because it looks to me you were clearly attacked.”

He flushes, suddenly finding his slippers the most fascinating thing in his home. Besides you. 

“Reid, what happened?” He suppresses a whine. You’re genuinely concerned for him. He wants to cry or better yet, throw himself out the window. Escape this situation somehow.

This is _so_ embarrassing.

Spencer mutters something under his breath and you frown. "What?"

"I was…" He trails off.

"Spencer Reid, if you don't tell me what is going on⎼"

"I was cooking."

You deadpan. “Cooking?”

He nods. 

“You weren’t attacked?”

He shakes his head.

“Robbed?”

Another shake of his head.

You blink. Spencer feels your eyes burning a hole through his head. 

“So, you’re telling me this,” You step away to glance at the wreckage that _was_ his apartment, before pointedly staring at Spencer. “was because you were cooking?”

Spencer nods, hands shoved in his pockets.

Your shoulders drop. The gun, now useless in your hands, falls at your side. “Spencer, what the hell?”

“I’m sorry!”

“You texted me this early for nothing?” 

"Early? (Your Name), it's 12 noon," Spencer checks his watch, leaning out of your line of fire. 

"On a _Saturday_ ," You huff, as if it’s obvious. Realizing you've been waving a gun around, you shove it back into your holster, shaking your head. “I broke traffic laws for you.”

“Okay, I didn't ask you to do that. And in my defense, I did say I was fine.”

“In a text. That was the most concerning part!" Your eyes wander back to the ~~crime scene~~ kitchen in horror. "What were you even making?"

Spencer purses his lips, side-eyeing the mess. "... Spaghetti."

"Oh, Reid."

"I know."

“How do you mess up pasta?” You poke at a mixing bowl, half full with… shady-looking contents. 

He crosses his arms over his chest as he huffs, “It's harder than it looks.”

For a second you say nothing, and he fidgets as you roam around the leftovers of his latest attempt, prompting Spencer to clear his throat and fill your silence, “I've been practicing. I order takeout frequently, and I realized I need to learn to cook meals aside from⎼well⎼cereal, eggs, and oatmeal. Although, oatmeal and eggs are the basis for⎼”

As Spencer rambles, you scan his kitchen and the living room floor. Coming down from your adrenaline, you have a chance to catch the finer details: the papers across the floor are recipe pages from culinary blogs, the red stains you now realize is tomato sauce has chunks of meat, and the window is probably opened to air out the burnt smell (how...?). The only thing that isn’t tainted is an open cookbook, perched safely in the corner of the kitchen counter. 

You smile to yourself as you thumb the pages. The edges are worn, like they’d been flipped through repeatedly.

Spencer’s clearly been at this for a while now. Working hard⎼not getting anywhere by the state of the place⎼but it’s admirable nonetheless. 

How can you make fun of him for that?

“Alright, I’ll help you.” 

“I⎼you will?” Spencer perks up. He wipes the elation on his face before you look back at him. 

“Yeah, sounds like fun.” Spencer steps aside as you move past him, toeing your shoes off by the front door. 

He swallows, trying not to watch as you shed your jacket and holster. Muscle ripples and flexes under your shirt as⎼oh would you look at that. His ceiling lights sure looks great today. 

Spencer clears his throat. “You don’t have to stay. I know I texted you, but you must be tired after the last case. You should rest.”

“Too late. I’m wide awake now, thanks to a certain doctor,” He flushes and you smile reassuringly, setting your things on the couch’s armrest. “It's fine, Reid. I don't have anything planned for today⎼” A lie but he doesn’t need to know that. “⎼and it'd be nice to hang with you."

A smile tugs at his lips. "Really?" It broadens as you nod to him, returning to the kitchen.

You survey the tragedy. "Now, I'm no David Rossi, but I think my cooking skills could salvage… this." You pick up a burnt wooden spoon, tossing it in the sink. 

Spencer gazes after you as you start gathering the used cutlery, moving around his kitchen as if it's your own. You've been to each other's places a few times but the way you shuffle around, opening cupboards with familiarity. It seems so… domestic. 

All that’s missing is an apron.

Oh. Oh wow. That’s an image he can’t forget. You in an apron, your future child hugging your side as you⎼ 

“Reid.” 

He blinks and the image fades. There's no kid, no apron (he makes a mental note to buy some though). You stand at the sink, now piled with the dirty dishes from his failed trials. 

“Are you going to help me or what?” You put a hand on your hip as you raise an eyebrow. “We can’t cook if there’s no dishes left to use.”

“Right, of course,” He nods, licking his lips. You turn back to the sink as he shakes his head, moving to stand beside you. He bites back a smile.

Calm down, Spence. He cooked with you before.

But that was with the entire team and you were at Rossi’s.

You two are simply cooking together. At his place. Alone. 

It’s not a big deal. You're not even dating. Don’t make this weird.

… Yeah, he can do that. He can _not_ be weird. 

* * *

“Reid, _no_.”

“I’m just saying, if we add the ingredients in this order⎼”

“I said no.”

“Okay.”

* * *

You love Spencer. You really do. 

“Reid.” 

But this is ridiculous.

“How?” You squint at him, standing in the middle of his kitchen. 

Spencer steps back, refusing to meet your eyes. “You’re mad.”

“Whether I’m mad or not has nothing to do with _this_.”

You managed to scavenge a few pots and pans from his last trial run. The kitchen is set up again, ingredients and utensils laid out neatly on the scrubbed down countertops like a surgical tray. Even the burnt smell completely aired out, allowing you to shut the window from the winter chill of Virginia.

It was one bathroom break. You had literally been gone for less than 4 minutes. 

“All you had to do was stir and let it boil,” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “How did you manage to burn the pasta?”

“Well, I calculated the boiling point of the pasta water with the time it said it would take on the box, but I found it’d be exponentially quicker if you set the flame to high and boil the water for⎼”

You swipe a hand over your face and groan. You may have overestimated Spencer.

The world is testing your love, isn’t it?

* * *

As it turns out, Spencer can’t _not_ be weird.

“You good?”

Well, you’re literally standing so close to him that he can smell your soap. So, that’s nice. 

He’s also feeling a tad incompetent right now. 

“Yes⎼sorry. Just new to this.” Spencer rolls his lips together as he wipes his sweaty palms with the kitchen towel, ignoring the way your shoulder brushes against his. He manages to suppress a blush.

You don’t seem to notice as you nod sagely. “Don’t worry about it. It can be difficult at first. I know I had a hard time when I first started practicing. Go ahead and try again.”

He does as you instructed, wrangling together whatever focus he's got left as he adjusts his grip on the knife. It’s small, a plain slicer blade. Perfect for a beginner like him. Taking it slow, he pushes the knife down as he cuts across the cooked hot dog. He wipes the sweat from his brow and inspects his work.

You clap for him. “Great! Now you just have to do that like what? 48 times?” You turn to your own cutting board. “While you do that, I’ll start mincing the garlic.”

Spencer’s chest swells with pride as he returns to his task. You know the phrase: feeling yourself? He’s heard Garcia and you use it before, but he’s never really understood it until now. Yes, he’s slow, his technique is shaky at best, and he’s paying way too much attention to the evenness of his slices. But this is the most progress he’s made by far. Without the whole thing blowing up in his face, that is.

Meanwhile, you twirl the santoku blade in your hand like a pen, mincing garlic cloves without breaking a sweat.

Spencer throws down his knife.

* * *

“You know what’ll make you feel better?” 

“I don't know, (Your Name). I don't even know how to handle a knife apparently,” Spencer grumbles, stirring the saucepan absentmindedly. It's the only thing he hasn't fucked up. You did most of the work.

You, he gets; you told him you've been cooking for yourself for years. You've had more than enough practice.

But he's supposed to be a genius! Why can't he wield a knife like he wields a pen⎼with poise and confidence? 

Hell, even the most basic serial killers make it look easy.

Oh god, is he actually envious of murderers? This is it. He's finally lost it. Well, at least his mom will appreciate the company.

You snort, leaving Spencer to sulk in the kitchen as you stride into his living room.

“Music! Everything's better with music," You crouch, browsing his record collection. They're neatly organized, alphabetically ordered by artist then genre. You tap your chin thoughtfully. "Although, I don't think Mozart and Beethoven is the kind of vibe I'm going for."

“Sorry, that's pretty much all I listen to,” Spencer’s voice echoes from the kitchen. 

“That's cool. You mind if I turn on the radio?”

“Be my guest,” He lags at the threshold as he sniffs his sleeve, nose scrunching. “I’m going to change. I smell like burnt ground beef and pasta water.”

“Don’t be too long! We’re not done yet,” You turn the dial, the needle whirring across its little window until you find the station you're looking for.

When Spencer returns, now in a freshly ironed shirt, he pauses at his bedroom doorway, confused. Music flutters throughout his apartment. It's not classical; he assumes the sixties, the mix of piano, trumpets, and drums too upbeat though not raucous, its singer’s voice baritone and charming. But that’s not what catches his attention as he tiptoes closer to the kitchen.

You’re singing.

“ _The sight of you leaves me weak..._ ”

The sun's begun to set, sending streaks through the kitchen window like little spotlights, speckling you in a warm afterglow as you stand at the stove. Your back to him, you bob and sway along to the rhythm. The lyrics are unfamiliar to him but he wishes he knew, promising himself to read them later as you begin using the ladle as a microphone. 

God, you are adorable.

“ _You’re just too good to be true…_ ”

Spencer's not blind, okay? You're basically attractive on all accounts. He always sees you at work and occasionally outside when you're hanging with the team, and you don't act much different either way. But as you belt out the lyrics, elongating the lines you know and mumbling the ones you don't, he thinks this is so… _you_. 

“ _Can’t take my eyes off you..._ ”

Spencer purses his lips, struggling not to smile as you serenade to the air. No, he can not. 

What is it about dancing terribly in the middle of his kitchen that makes this so personal?

Whatever it may be, Spencer's captivated, unflinching even as you completely miss a note. Your voice cracks but for the most part you meet each key well. You only disappoint him when you stop, the song coming to an end and going to commercial.

Then you notice him.

" _Hey_ , Doc. I-uh-how long you've been standing there?" You fumble, clearing your throat and leaning against the counter, nonchalant. As if you hadn’t given a concert worthy performance. 

You flush as he bites his lip, trying to maintain a straight face. “Not long. What artist was that?"

"Oh, I don't know," You turn back to the boiling pot and stir, an obvious attempt to keep yourself occupied. Avoid his gaze. "Some guy, Frank-Frank something? I have to Google it, but I remember my parents jamming to it when I was little."

Spencer lingers at the doorway, lips twitching into a smile. "That's really nice."

"Yeah, I figured you wouldn't be into heavy metal or classic rock, so I thought this was safe middle ground."

Your back to him, you don’t catch how his face immediately brightens. You thought of him, considered his feelings in something as trivial as his taste in music. Why does that make his insides gooey? 

You glance over your shoulder at Spencer. He hadn’t said much, a strange occurrence you’ve come to realize since joining the BAU. But the air is knocked out of you as you catch his soft grin and crinkled eyes⎼trained on _you_. 

You withhold your own smile as you turn back to the pot. “Hey, quit standing around. We still have to plate these.”

* * *

“So, if being an FBI agent didn’t work out, would you have been a singer?”

“Ugh, Reid!”

“What? It’s a legitimate question!”

* * *

“It looks deceptively appetizing.”

“I can't say I disagree.”

You’re no mathematician, but it shouldn’t take a genius to notice and you reprimand yourself. How could you have not realized sooner? You imagine Rossi, sleek hair bouncing as he shakes his head at the two of you, exasperated; only a newb would make as stupid of a mistake as _this_. 

There's not enough pasta.

Wow, you are idiots. Or as Rossi would put it: ass-clowns.

Spencer purchased several boxes of pasta, but you can guess how much was left after his multiple failed attempts at cooking. Seeing it now, on the single plate on his dining table, you both clearly see there’s only enough pasta for one serving.

Which according to Spencer, one serving is, statistically on average, less than a handful.

And of course he's not wrong.

You both stare down the sad, little heap of spaghetti, disproportionately drowned in marinara sauce and cheese.

Spencer turns to you, “You try it."

You scoff at him, taken aback. "Why me?"

"You are my guest, _and_ you did most of the work. It's only logical to taste the fruits of your labour." You grimace; leave it to Spencer to give reasonable arguments for something as simple as tasting. 

Spencer gives you a close-lipped smile. It’s innocent and adorable in every way, and maybe if this was a different situation you’d cover up a starstruck sigh. But you know better, know _him_ better. He's using the whole thing to cover the underlying risk of poisoning himself. 

He’s trying to be slick. Unbelievable.

If he wasn’t so cute, you might actually be pressed with him.

"Actually, _Spencer_ ," Your tone sickeningly sweet, you clock the falter in his gaze and bite down a smirk. "Since you've been such a gracious host⎼you know⎼letting me take over your kitchen and stereo, you should take the first bite. This was a team effort after all."

You mirror him as you meet his eyes, unrelenting. A second later, his shoulders sag in defeat.

Spencer really met his match with you. 

“Okay, how about this: we both taste it at the same time and I'll have 911 on speed dial in case one or both of us keel over,” He holds out his phone.

Satisfied, you grin as you hand him a fork. “This is why you’re the genius," 

“Really? It’s not because of my multiple degrees? Or my high IQ?”

“Definitely not. Those are worthless.”

Spencer guffaws, and forks in hand, you untangle the culinary mess, clinking your forks in cheers before taking a cautious bite. The both of you are prepared for the worse, ready to immediately gag or spit or throw up.

To your surprise, you don’t. 

Even more surprising, you don’t hate it?

“Oh my god,” Your eyes widen, words garbled from your mouthful. “Did the spaghetti damage my tastebuds or is this actually not bad?”

“If that’s the case, my tastebuds are damaged too. Although that’s unlikely, considering you made this,” Spencer says through chipmunk cheeks. 

“Ah thanks, but this is teamwork at its finest. Good work, partner,” You go for a fist bump. Spencer meets you halfway, and you laugh as he hesitantly folds his hand over your fist. 

You’re both quick to scarf down the little portion of spaghetti, and it’s not long after you find yourselves standing at the sink again. It's your turn to wash, music softly streaming from the living room as you settle into a comfortable silence. 

But Spencer's been sneaking glances at you for the past minute. It's making you anxious.

You flick a clump of suds at him and he squeaks. "Ackh⎼what's that for?"

"You've been glancing at me like every 10 seconds and it's starting to weird me out. What? Is it the spaghetti? I warned you I'm not Rossi⎼"

Spencer shakes his head. "No! It came out better than I expected actually. I just want to say thanks. I know you had plans, but you still stayed so... thank you."

He tries not to squirm as you stare at him strangely. Like his gratitude is unnecessary. 

You're not one to dwell on wording, but Spencer of all people knows the power and significance words have behind them. It's the way he thanked you that you find odd? No⎼misplaced? Because it's one thing to be grateful for helping him cook, to teach him and learn together.

But he's thanking you for staying. For simply taking the time out of your day for him. Like it's a blessing, a privilege. 

Then it dawns on you that Spencer's a genius, been one almost his entire life. Tidbits of his childhood flash in your memory, small details he's mentioned in passing. He doesn't talk about it but he doesn't go out of his way to draw attention to it either; he doesn't have many friends, at least outside of work.

You realize he probably didn't have many friends growing up either. Being a child prodigy and all. 

_Oh Spencer_. Your heart twinges, imagining Little Spence excluded by rowdy, immature teenagers, and when they did include him it was probably for their convenience. He must have been so lonely.

"Hey,” You eye Spencer carefully. “You know you don't need an excuse to hang out, right?”

Spencer startles, your puzzled expression morphing into not pity but something softer. Somber. He nods, stammering, “I-I know.”

“Good, but just to be clear, I like you.” Spencer can't help as his brow shoots up, his heart jumping at your soft tone. You quickly add, "I like hanging out with you! Because we're friends. And friends don't need a reason to be around each other.”

When Spencer’s face pinches, you continue, “Like, do you remember when you’re a kid and you’d go over to your friend’s house and do nothing together? You don’t have to talk, you could be doing two different tasks but you’d still have fun? That’s what I’m saying. We can literally do nothing together, and I’d still have fun because... I enjoy your company.” You purse your lips, cringing as the intimacy of the atmosphere sets in. 

You turn back to the sink. “So, hit me up if you want. Or don’t. It’s whatever⎼hey!" You gawk at him, sputtering, "Did you just _splash_ me?"

"Yes, you were rambling.” Spencer frowns, “So this is what it feels like to be on the other end of that comment. Anyway," Then he grins at you, "to be clear, I also enjoy your company."

"Oh."

“And I will hold you to that.”

“Oh. Cool.” 

“Cool.”

You both return to washing and drying the dishes, ducking your chins as you try to hide loving smiles and heart eyes from each other.

You’re just hanging out. You’re just enjoying each other’s company. Your hearts are just pounding.

It’s not a big deal.

> _There are no words left to speak  
>  But if you feel like I feel  
> Please let me know that it's real  
> You're just too good to be true  
> Can't take my eyes off you_


End file.
